


the pain of a broken leg

by dismalisland



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, but i feel like absolute ass, its 2:52 am and im gonna be busy tomorrow, thought it was time id go ahead and write again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 07:38:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15625917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismalisland/pseuds/dismalisland
Summary: it’s not really a vent fic, but it sure gets close.





	the pain of a broken leg

What’s the worst punishment God could give a person? 

He’s sure being sent to Hell isn’t great, but the smoldering heat of his hot apartment and his wet with sweat body make the 7 levels seem like fucking childs play. As he heaves and wraps up cutting the phone cords in his shitty apartment so the 0 people who will call may get worried he drops the scissors and stumbles back. Rubs his 5’o clock shadow. Oh, the door. His head darts to look at the door and he quickly thinks of a plan. Those crappy horror movies brisk through his head as he swallows and his mouth falls agap to breath hard. He looks at his couch. It’s ugly, but it’s heavy. Then he looks at the door.

As he pushes the beaten couch to barricade the door he gets the feeling of lightheadedness that comes with a wash of the terrible stomach coil of vomiting. And he has to stop and breath for a second, nostrils flaring as he tries to breath through his nose first, then gives up and breathes through his mouth like a fish. And he pushes again, heels of his shoes scraping the floor. He knows they’re coming and he has no time. When it’s finally against the door, he stumbles over to the wall adjacent to the door. And he falls down and leans against it. He’s going to vomit now. He sits up and gags. Nothing. He’s still for a while before he leans back. 

Hours pass.

The gun in his hand rests on his knee as he rolls his head against the wall. A hiccup. Nothings scary anymore. He should give Evan a call. He’s probably trying to call him. Scratch that. No he’s not. But a little part of him wants to think someone cares. He sniffs as he looks at the door with half lidded, expecting eyes as he grips the neck of a cheap beer bottle with one hand and holds his pretty pistol with the other. He just stares. His eyes sting. Is he tired? His face is wet. Is that sweat? No, those are tears. He wipes his eyes. Definetly tears.

God is merciless, he thinks. He leans his head against the wall to let the tears roll. It’s been years. He doesn’t cry. Officers don’t cry. But here he is, waiting to be arrested. Or shot on sight. God. The bottles have racked up to 5, now, and he wonders how many bottles of this shit it takes to get alcohol poisoning. He should look that up. Fuck that. It won’t be quick enough.

The taste of alcohol and the wetness of tears and the heat of a nuclear blast are the last things God gives him the opprotunity to feel.


End file.
